


The Heroes of Gronder Field

by Focalist



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Other tags to be added later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:41:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25280299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Focalist/pseuds/Focalist
Summary: When Byleth Eisner’s students reunited at Garrech Mach after five years, they’d been hoping for a miracle. They didn’t get one — Byleth is dead.  But Claude von Riegan was never one to pin all his hopes on a single gambit.Ignatz Victor’s depictions of the Alliance’s triumphs have fanned the flames of resistance from Fodlan’s Locket to distant Faerghus. What the paintings don’t show, however, is the terrible cost at which each victory is won. Will freedom justify the lies he puts to canvas?Ferdinand has been immortalized in tapestries thrice his height and stories he could never hope to live up to. The so-called Stallion of Adrestia throws himself into battle with the fervor of a man bent on death, but Lord Riegan isn’t about to give up so perfect a pawn.While the nobles were busy bickering, Leonie Pinelli was winning the war for them at the head of her mercenary company, the Hundred Arms. But the more the commoners chant her name in the streets—and whisper of Saint Seiros reborn—the less inclined the nobles are to let her do as she pleases.Battle looms over Gronder Field and the wind whistling through the grass seems to say, “Hearken! Here will history be made!”
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez/Hilda Valentine Goneril
Kudos: 1





	The Heroes of Gronder Field

The knights from Gloucester marched in ranks of eight abreast, in a column that stretched all the way from the east gate of the Great Bridge to the distant horizon of the Myrrdin Heath. The first of their number had arrived midway through the afternoon, eliciting joyous cries from the Alliance regulars drilling in the camp that sprawled in the shadow of the bridge tower. Yet even with the orange sun hanging low in the west, they continued to arrive in droves. From his vantage upon the ramparts, Ignatz Victor had already begun to imagine how he might commit such a scene to canvas: the sweeping strokes of the rolling heath, the rough daubs of gray for the serried men-at-arms, and scattered specks of vermilion where the last rays of the light glinted off the noble lanceheads; the standard swaying in the wind, of course, would be shadowed more indigo than purple — only the finest tinctures for the Alliance's finest knights.

“Working on another project, are you?”

Ignatz flinched, only then realizing he’d raised his arms to frame the scene with his fingers. He hastily lowered his hands. “No,” he said. “Force of habit, I guess. Besides, I’m too busy with all my official work to have any time left for personal— A-anyway, what about you, Raphael?”

"Helping the guys from Gloucester set up camp." As if to emphasise the point, he hefted a bundle of polearms he had cradled in his arms. When he did it, it looked uncannily easy. "That your latest assignment from Claude, then?"

From the downward tilt of Raphael's gaze, Ignatz could tell he was referring to the rolled up canvas leaning against the parapet next to him. "Yeah. I was on my way to our honored guest's room just now."

"Just had to stop and take in the sights, eh?"

Ignatz had stopped to steel his nerves—and, to a degree, his stomach—but he just nodded.

"Can't blame you. I mean, look at them! With them here, we're almost twice as many! We're sure to win now."

"I guess. I'm still pretty nervous, though."

"Don't worry about it!" Raphael gave him a heavy, hearty smack on the shoulder. "Sure, Edelgard's gotten crazy strong, but think about who we've got on our side. Claude's always got a plan up his sleeve. Sylvain and Caspar are serious bruisers. Then there's our 'honored guest,' like you said. I don't think I'll ever forget the way he rushed Ladislava."

Ignatz had to stop himself from flinching.

"But just you watch—after this battle, I'll be as much a hero as they are! What do you think they'll call me, eh, Ignatz? Raphael the Strong? The Strongest?!"

"They're usually a bit more flowery about it but… I don't know. Is that really what you want?"

"Not really. You know that. But if I can show how strong I am in this battle, then maybe one of the noble houses will give me a fief, you know? Then my sister and I will be set."

"I guess. But we've got to get through this battle first."

"If you're right, you're right! Always practical, aren't you?" Raphael gave a throaty laugh. "Well, I guess we've both got work to do for 'this battle.' See you later? You know—at the feast."

"It wouldn't do to miss Lorenz's welcome back party, right?"

"Awesome! Then let's get this over with. Sooner we finish, sooner we feast!" And having said so, he hurried off toward the stairs.

When the echo of his footsteps—and the clattering equipment—had faded, Ignatz picked the canvas up off the floor. He gazed out over the plains once more. At last, he could spy the tail end of the caravan from Gloucester, a few tiny specks silhouetted on the golden field.

After the Alliance had occupied Myrddin, Claude had been quick to organize their forces in and around it—before any of the nobles could start squabbling over quarters and holdings. Commoners were assigned lots in the grounds around the eastern bridge tower, while nobles were assigned rooms within the Great Bridge itself. Most had to share large holding rooms with each other; only the most distinguished were assigned private quarters—including, of course, the Noblest of Nobles himself, the Red Stallion, Ferdinand of Adrestia. It was all part of Claude's plan, of course. Who better to win over the empire's malcontents than someone who symbolised the ideals of its old order?

Or at least, someone who once did.

"Ferdinand?" Ignatz knocked thrice on thedoor. "It's Ignatz."

There was a pause, then a heavy thud, and then finally, "Come in!" Even through the thick wood, it was clear his tongue was stumbling on the words.

The moment Ignatz opened the door, he was overwhelmed by a cocktail of competing odors: wine, sweat, tobacco smoke and some odiously strong perfume that he assumed was meant to mask it all but had failed horribly at this design. Yet that was not what shocked him most—that distinction belonged to a figure lounging amid the silken sheets of Ferdinand's bed. Indeed, Ignatz had first thought it the knight himself, but it was too slender and too graceful by far. No, it was— 

"Marianne?"

She smiled weakly at him, then turned her attention to the foot of the bed.

Ignatz followed her gaze and found Ferdinand there, struggling to stand up. So that explained the thud. Yet if he'd just fallen out of the bed where Marianne yet lay, then…

"Does our esteemed leader have a new assignment for me?" Ferdinand asked, finally finding his feet. He was dressed in his undershirt, unbuttoned to the waist, where a belt cinched it sloppily closed. He had his boots on. If that was the case, perhaps they hadn't been…? Reluctantly—and subtly as he could manage—he shifted his gaze toward Marianne.

"Oh, I see it is a new painting," Ferdinand said. He swayed over to a lavishly upholstered chair in the middle of the room. "Do not be shy now. Show us!"

"Of course," Ignatz said. Marianne was wearing one of the blue dresses she always seemed to be in. Nothing of note there. Yet it was barely a reassurance. Sure, she had been seen in Ferdinand's company at the stables quite often, but to be in his room…? "Here it is."

He unrolled the canvas and held it up before him. 

"Ah! You have truly outdone yourself this time."

Ferdinand fell silent. Ignatz didn't need to see the painting to know what he was seeing. The long hours he'd spent working on the painting had burned the image into his memory: the dirt rising off the stones of the Great Bridge, stirred by the thundering hooves of the cavalry — then, rising out of the clouds of dust, Ferdinand, leading the advance, hair and cape pulled back by the fervor of his charge — and in his hand, the Lance of Assal stabbing skyward into the shadow of the descending foe — Ladislava, axe bearing down in a fearsome arc, astride her wyvern whose wings blot out the sky so that the scene is lit only by the brilliant blue radiance of Cichol’s spirit. The moment before the clash frozen forever in time.

"Seeing this," Ferdinand sighed, "you'd never imagine how it actually turned out."

"We won the battle," Ignatz said. The words were rancid in his mouth, but what could he do? The plan relied on Ferdinand's story rising to the status of legend, and for that to happen, there could only be one version of the story — the one where Ferdinand was the hero. "We couldn't have managed it if you hadn't broken the enemy lines."

"And nearly broken my back when Ladislava unhorsed me!" Ferdinand roared with drunken laughter.

Ignatz chuckled along. What was the point? The knave himself knew what a farce this was.

"I used to think the best artworks were those that mirrored the world as faithfully as possible. But your work has changed my mind. It is truly a wonder… a mirror to the world, but such a faithless one!"

Ignatz's grip on the canvas tightened. He forced his hands to relax. "If you're done admiring it, perhaps we can move on to—"

"Does it not make you wonder about the old stories, too? Come," Ferdinand gestured at an empty seat. "Join me for a drink. There is no need to stand on ceremony. You are among friends, after all."

"If it's all the same, I have much to—"

"You, too, Marianne."

To Ignatz's surprise, Marianne rose from the bed and took a seat — though not a glass. In this proximity, he could see that her dress was creased in some areas. How long had she been here?

"As I was saying," Ferdinand said, picking up a carafe of wine and pouring liberally into his own glass, and then another, which he proffered to Ignatz. "Does it not make you wonder about the old stories? About the Elites? And the Four Saints?"

"It would be rather distracting to think about catechism while trying to work."

"Truly? Do you not think the parallels rather striking? They, too, were soldiers in a war. Are you not curious about what their lives might have been like outside the stories? What do you think might be missing from their tales? Did they, too, look in horror upon the myths built upon their little lives?"

"Someone more pious might call you a heretic for saying such things."

Ferdinand glanced at Marianne. She met his gaze but said nothing.

"I think the saints' achievements are evidence enough of their virtues."

"Perhaps you are right. Though it makes me wonder — what would St. Cichol think, seeing his lance in such unseemly hands?" He barked a graceless laugh.

"I don't think the saints would begrudge us," Marianne muttered, "for stumbling in their footsteps."

Ferdinand's laughter died in an instant. "I suppose you are right."

There was a moment's quiet. Ignatz waited, half hoping Marianne would have more to say — something to salvage the situation or at least shed light on it.

But it was Ferdinand who broke the silence. "I apologise for the digression, Ignatz, but your work truly did call to mind certain things I have been pondering lately. Alas, philosophy was never my strong suit, and Marianne's insights continue to humble me. I do hope to hear your thoughts, but perhaps after we have attended to business, yes?"

"Of course." Ignatz hoped never to suffer the misfortune of enduring Ferdinand's sophistry, but if that's all he and Marianne had been doing, it would be a relief. He placed an envelope on the table and retrieved a sheaf of papers from it. "The latest reports from our scouts have arrived. You may find some developments… concerning. That said—"

"Is that all?"

"Er, what?"

"If it is just military movements and the like, you need not spend time on my account. I am quite capable of interpreting the reports myself."

"I don't mean to suggest otherwise but—"

"Have my efforts in the war been found wanting thus far? That little tumble notwithstanding, I do believe I have demonstrated my reliability in that regard, at least. So go on, Ignatz. There is a feast tonight, yes? Lorenz Hellman Gloucester's glorious arrival? I am sure you will want to get ready. And I suppose I must, as well."

"Right." Ignatz stood. He glanced once more at Marianne.

"I'll be there too, of course," she said. "I'm sure Lorenz would be upset if I weren't."

And before Ignatz could say any more, Ferdinand rose, wove his way to the door, and held it open for him a perfect mockery of a perfect host's manners. Ignatz gave him a perfunctory smile as he left, but it soured into a frown as he passed him by. Another scent lingered beneath the man's odious aroma — a delicate perfume he'd only occasionally caught wind of in the stables or in the chapel or by happy coincidence in the dormitory halls. As he strode back to his quarters, Ignatz found himself wondering what St. Cichol indeed might think of this son of his _noble_ lineage, and why the good Saint would suffer such a wretch to lay hands on his lance — or on other sacred bodies that Ignatz dared not imagine.

***

"Tell the others I'll join them in a bit," Leonie told the guard to her left, a man who had served with Jeralt for some five years; like others who'd been at the battle of Garreg Mach, he'd sought out other survivors — and when the Leonie proposed forming a company like Jeralt's to push the empire back, he'd been all too eager to join. It wasn't even the Hundred Arms yet back then, just a ragtag bunch of soldiers willing to sell their sword arms, but not their souls.

"Got it, Leonie," the man said. He gave her a shallow bow at the entrance of her tent. She wasn't too keen on formalities, but apparently Jeralt had started the practice just so people didn't have to think about how to greet him, and that was something she could get behind.

"And make sure they leave some of whatever scraps the Gloucesters send us, got it?" She waited just long enough to hear him chuckle in response, then slipped through the flap in her tent.

"Skipping the feast, Leonie?" said a familiar voice as she entered.

"Hey, Ignatz," Leonie said. She was used to him dropping by and after her guards once held him outside where he waited half an hour for her to arrive, she'd left them instructions to just let him in. This time, though, he'd brought along someone dressed in a weathered, oversized riding cloak. "Yeah. With all the work the company's got, I can't very well leave them alone to pig out with the nobles. What kind of message would that send, right?"

"What message _would_ it send," the hooded figure said. The voice that emerged was low, unnaturally so, as if its bearer were forcing down.

"I don't like your tone. Who are you, anyway?"

"Er, someone who was quite eager to meet you,"Ignatz hurriedly answered. " But perhaps we could speak in private?"

She signalled for her guards to wait outside. Ignatz was more cautious than most, which meant it was unlikely to be a trap of some sort. When only the three of them remained, she spoke again: "So then, off with the hood."

"Very well," said the fake voice again, "But when I reveal myself and you recognize me, you must keep quiet, understood?"

Leonie felt her pulse quicken in spite of herself. Someone she would recognize, who'd travelled under great secrecy, whose voice strained to drop so low… Could it be? She didn't want to get her hopes up, yet if it were true, the tide might yet turn. Not that she'd ever openly acknowledge that to her rival in Jeralt's tutelage. "O-of course."

With an exaggerated gesture, the figure swept the large hood aside and stared Leonie squarely in the face.

"Oh. Lorenz."

He furrowed his brow. "I just said 'keep quiet', not 'sound like your horse broke a leg.'"

"Hey, if my horse broke a leg, I'd be a lot less quiet than this. Anyway, er, it's good to see you but… What are you doing here?"

"I had a feeling you'd skip the dinner and sent a footman to ask Ignatz to help me ensure that you didn't."

"What? Oh, come on, Lorenz. You know it's nothing personal. I just can't let my soldiers buckle down with all this work — work they're doing for _your_ knights — and just take it easy myself."

"There are a number of problems with that response. First, is that going to that dinner would be anything but 'taking it easy' for you. Joining your companions in rote maintenance would be taking it easy, but that's not where you, as their leader, are needed most. Second—" 

"And what exactly makes you think you know how I should be leading my company?"

"Leonie, for once, can we _not_ get into this? I am not telling you how to lead them, just telling were you are needed and goddess help us all you're free to do as you wish so long as you are there."

"If it doesn't even matter what I do, then why do I need to be there?"

"Because it's much less dangerous than not being there."

"What, a threat now?"

"Yes— I mean no! I mean, not from me but would you lower your voice?"

Leonie took a deep breath to calm herself. "Okay, explain."

"Perhaps I should start from the beginning. Put yourself in the position of one of my… peers. Say you've heard tell of a wandering band of mercenaries putting imperial soldiers to heel one battle after another, where your own knights have faltered. Every month, you hear new tales of this warband and with every telling their numbers swell. What would you think of that?"

"I dunno, grateful?"

"You're not even trying to think like a noble."

"If I thought like a noble, I'd be losing battles like they were. I win because I don't think like them."

"And one day, not _being able_ to think like them is going to lose you a battle you can't afford to lose. Leonie, people are suspicious of you and your company, and worse, they're afraid of it. Tales of a new goddess of victory might be well and good for the common folk, but for people in charge, it's a problem waiting to happen."

"What?! I'm _solving_ their problems!"

"Tell me, Leonie, what happens to armed men when their arms aren't needed any more?"

"You think we'll turn to banditry?! The only reason half these people are even taking up arms is to save their homes. They're not about to turn around and rob them."

"And the other half? If even just they decide they like the feeling of— "

"Stop. You don't know them. How dare you—"

"You're right. I don't. But I do know how nobles and how they think. If you shun their company, you only give them more reason to suspect you. So I suggest you attend tonight and reassure them that there is more the the leader of the Hundred Arms than just a bloody sword."

Leonie glared at him, her pulse still pounding. There was sense to what he said but only because nobles always got to get away with being senseless. "Aaaagh! Ignatz!" she said, "What do you think?"

"Er, well…" 

But she already knew what he thought. After all, he'd brought Lorenz here in the first place. But if he said it, maybe it'd be easier to stomach than the condescending way Lorenz always had of being right.

"I think you should go. The nobility… well, you should watch yourself around them. And besides, don't you think it might be fun? All of us from the Golden Deer haven't really had a chance to catch up since Garreg Mach. It'll be like old times, right?"

Leonie glanced at Lorenz. He was still scowling, but his eyes glimmered with satisfaction. Like old times indeed. She sighed. "All right, I'll be there."

"Good," Lorenz said. "I brought something for you to wear, since I'm sure you have nothing suitable."

"Okay, look here. Going is one thing, but if you think—"

"Ignatz" Lorenz said, rising to his feet and lifting his hood again, "I leave it to you to make her see reason."

***

By all reports, the enemy's forces would mass at Gronder Field within a week. By then, it would be too late, so the Alliance army would have to march within a few days, at most, but you wouldn't have guessed as much from the way the officers partied. There had to be a hundred people crammed into the Bridge's grand hall, a large room that occupied nearly an entire level overlooking the eastern entrance. Wine flowed, plate after plate of food arrived steaming from the kitchen, and the rousing tunes from the brass band never seemed to stop. The fetes at Garreg Mach were nothing compared to this, but then again, what would you expect of a party thrown by the Church? Even in Enbarr, known for its festivities, Caspar couldn't remember anything quite so rousing — though perhaps he'd just been too young. The thought of the capital filled Caspar with a dull pain, so he took another swig of cheap but unwatered wine, and returned his thoughts to the moment.

The non-Alliance officers had been seated at two tables next to each other, along with some of Leicester's minor nobles and junior officers. Probably the higher-ups' way of getting people to get along. Normally, Caspar wouldn't have minded, but the person who'd planned the seats had the bright idea of seating Sylvain at the head of one table and Ferdinand at the foot of the other — and while the women of the Alliance military might have kept their composure around them during the day, they had no such reservations now that they were drunk.

And the guys between those two redheads were _not_ amused. And while Caspar had no problems with Ferdinand and Sylvain getting that kind of attention, the bitter mood had made it impossible to hold any sort of conversation with his seatmates. Which left just eating and drinking. So he took another swig.

"Wow, you must _really_ like that wine."

On instinct, Caspar rounded on the speaker with a scowl — a solid punch was always a good way to shut a wise-ass up — but it turned out to be Hilda.

"Mind if I sit?" she said, maybe to him but maybe to the guy beside him who scooted over with a look of bewilderment on his face.

"Hey, Hilda," Caspar said. "The wine's all right though I'm surprised the fancy pants over at your table re okay with it. Or are you guys getting better stuff?"

"Officially, it's all the same wine, but a lot of them brought a few bottles of their personal stash and thought tonight was as good a night as any to drink them."

"Hah! I should've guessed. So let me guess, you happen to prefer cheap drinks?"

"Of course not!" Then she leaned in and whispered, "Though between you and me, I'd drink anything as long as it were sweet enough."

Caspar chuckled. "So what, you here to talk to Ferdinand and Sylvain too?"

"Looks like I'd be waiting all night if that were the case. Though that might still be better than the kind of talking they're doing over at the big old leaders' table." She heaved a dramatic sigh. "I thought they were hosting this little dinner so people could stop worrying for a while, but _all_ they want to talk about is 'battle' this and 'tactics' that — as if they hadn't said all the same things just this afternoon! I don't know how Claude manages it all."

"Well, that's why he's the leader, right? But that said, I heard talk among some of the soldiers coming in about the situation in Hrym."

"Oh, that? What about it?"

Caspar dropped his voice by a measure, his tone growing more serious. "They say Duke Aegir was spotted there."

"Oh, that. I think they did talk about that, uh… rumor, they called it." Hilda leaned in close. She smelled of vanilla and… some sort of flower. She whispered, "You must have drank a lot of wine, since you're not as quiet as you think."

She stood up and just as Caspar was cursing himself for bringing up _more_ of the war, she said, "Shall we head to the balcony for some air?"

He stumbled a little as he hurried out of his seat.

'Balcony' was a bit of an overstatement. Or was it understatement? In any case, the cold stone of the ramparts was nothing like the the sweeping verandahs that people usually had in mind when they said 'balcony.' But Caspar wasn't complaining. The air was definitely fresher — and he hadn't realized just how noisy it had been inside the room. There were a couple others out on the balcony, he saw as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. And as they adjusted further, he realized it was more like 'there were other couples.'

That is, there were couples. And then there was him and Hilda. She found a quiet part of the wall and leaned against the parapet with the moonlight highlighting her curves. "What did you hear about Hrym and the duke?"

"Oh, right. Just rumors, like you said."

"Oh, Caspar. I only said they were rumors because I didn't want anyone else hearing." Her expression shifted uneasily. "There have been reports from, well, pretty reliable sources that say the Duke has been spotted there."

"Seriously?! But if that's the case, then… Then, well… shouldn't we do something about it?"

"Maybe. Some of the elders seem to think so. A lot of them think it's a bad idea. Hrym's in a bad spot and we've got enough to worry about with… you know." Her gaze swept past the river, over to the vast expanse of Gronder Field. "They figure he's looking for friends in the Alliance who'll take him in. That might have worked a month ago, but now that House Gloucester and House Riegan are on the same page, I can't imagine a lot of people willing to risk their neck for him."

"Huh. I wonder what he'll do." Caspar joined her at the parapet and took in the view. Across the river to the left was Gronder Field, all shifting shadows in the night; to the right, a sea of tents flying Alliance colors, lit by countless constellations of bonfires.

"Thinking of your father?" Hilda asked.

"Well, now that you mention him." He laughed dryly. "But nah, my old man's as tough as they come. I'd be more worried about anyone facing him."

"Even tough people run into trouble sometimes, you know?" She poked him in the side. "I can think of _some people_ who run into it a lot."

"Yeah, well I'm doing fine, aren't I?"

"I guess so. Maybe you're not that tough after all."

"Hey!"

"So what _is_ on your mind? Ferdinand?"

"... Yeah. He's not been the same since we met up at Garreg Mach. And that probably means he wasn't quite the same even before that. He had some, well, weird ideas about the empire and where we'd all fit in someday, you know? I mean, not weird but… he got really into it. So I think he might've taken all this harder than the rest of us."

"And you're worried he'll do something reckless?"

"Exactly! Actually, I'm worried he's already—"

"Doing something like riding off to Hrym based on a rumor he heard?" 

"What?"

Hilda cupped Caspar's chin in her hand and pointed his head toward the camp grounds. "There," she said, pointing. "The smaller path that runs through the drilling grounds. Doesn't that rider look familiar? And aren't his boots awfully shiny?"

"No way." Down below, wending his way between the tents, was a solitary rider in a hooded cloak. Despite the effort he'd gone through to hide his identity, however, Ferdinand apparently couldn't stop himself from being so perfectly poised in the saddle or stop a lock of his hair from slipping free of the hood to trail dramatically in the wind. "I mean, you're right, but how did he—"

"You're not as quiet as you think. Now hurry up, or he might get into some real trouble."

"Ah, shit." 

Caspar turned to leave, but Hilda put her hand lightly yet firmly on his shoulder.She slipped her scarf from off her shoulder and looped it behind his neck. She began to tie it, pulling him closer as she did.

"To keep you warm while you're riding through the night," she said. Then she leaned in and their lips met for the briefest of moments. "And to keep your spirits high when you run into trouble. And I'm sure you will."

Caspar opened his mouth but couldn't find the words. But he'd always been better at acting, so he just smiled at her and nodded, then ran as fast as he could toward the stables.

**Author's Note:**

> This idea's been bouncing around in my head and putting it into words is helping me stay sane these days. Will work on it as I can, but expect no regularity.


End file.
